


Reunion

by melonbutterfly



Series: Trope Bingo stories [1]
Category: The Martian (2015)
Genre: M/M, Medical Examination, Mutual Pining, Pre-Slash, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 04:39:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6180464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonbutterfly/pseuds/melonbutterfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Chris sees Mark again – really sees him – is among absolute chaos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reunion

The first time Chris sees Mark again – really sees him – is among absolute chaos. Inside more than outside, though the circumstances don't exactly allow him to focus only on the reunion either. There was too much tension beforehand that the release of it leaves him a little breathless and a little disoriented, too. It's all he can do not to cling to Mark and never let him go ever again as they pull him in those last few centimeters of distance between the openness of space and the safety of the decompression chamber.

God. If _he_ is disoriented, how does _Mark_ feel?

There are voices in Chris' ears, happy and relief stark in them and that's all that registers, the words passing him by as he stares at Mark's face. Relief and happiness make those sky blue eyes bright, but even that can't distract from how thin Mark has gotten, how tired he looks.

The first place you lose weight is the face, Chris thinks absently, a bit dazed. He'd spent countless hours sorting through his equipment, wondering what all might have befallen Mark in those months of danger and trying to prepare for all eventualities. He'd known to expect weight loss, but there's a difference between the intellectual knowledge of it and literally staring it straight in the face.

Then they help Mark take the space suit off, and the stench that hits Chris' nostrils abruptly reminds him of homeless people who have nowhere to shower. It's a deafening smell and the others grimace, gently rib Mark about it, who rolls his eyes and points out to them, "Three months without a shower, you assholes. I had other priorities."

Chris has worked in an ER and treated homeless people before, so he has some practice ignoring the smell. "I'm a bit more concerned about other things too," he adds a bit absent-mindedly, noting sharply how stiffly Mark is moving even in zero gravity, how he clenches his jaw when he turns a bit too quickly. Something wrong with his ribs, clearly, but that was to be expected. Hopefully no punctures, but it's impossible to tell right now; sometimes adrenaline conceals injuries even from the sufferer. "Let's get you to the infirmary."

"Back in bossy Beck's clutches," Mark sighs and tries to reach for the doorframe to propel himself forwards. Except something goes wrong with the gesture – too fast, Chris speculates, too careless a twist, and Mark flinches back mid-motion, goes pale in response to _that_.

Right, that's it.

Ruthlessly, Chris shoves all his personal feelings aside and lets his experience as a doctor take over. "Don't move," he snaps. "Get him horizontal. Are you dizzy? Nauseous? How's your breathing?"

He fires questions at Mark as Chris and Martinez pull Mark towards the infirmary, partially because he needs the answers, partially to distract Mark from the pain, partially to keep Mark from being a stubborn ass about it and insisting on getting there himself. He would, too.

Once they get to the infirmary Chris chases everyone out, worried about the way Mark's breathing has gone more laborious with increasing gravity. It's a struggle peeling him out of his worn, dirty spacesuit, even with cutting it open as Chris does.

When Mark is naked, stretched out on the bed before him and ready for examination, the full extent of his injuries becomes fully obvious. As Chris thought, Mark's ribs are broken; three of them through and through, another partially. And that's not accounting for the myriad of bruises scattered liberally all over Mark's body, the light concussion, the pressure trauma from entering space with no protection whatsoever Jesus fucking Christ, or the general bad condition Mark is in, malnutrition being the worst of it. The first thing Chris does after his assessment is give Mark a light dose of painkillers, and then he sets to fixing what he can.

Naturally, because being difficult is probably in his blood or something, Mark protests when Chris makes to get to the bandaging. "Let me shower first."

"No way," Chris immediately denies. "There's no telling what sort of damage you could do to yourself without protection."

"Please." Mark's voice has gone hoarse and he's not joking, not even a little bit. "I need to- I need to feel human again."

There is no way Chris could deny him that, not after everything Mark went through. But as much as he wants to give Mark everything in his power to try to make up at least a little for Mark's ordeal, he can't in good conscience allow him to potentially endanger himself. Reluctantly, Chris admits, "I want to, but I can't let you. Mark, one wrong move could puncture your lungs."

"So... come with me." Eyes wide, Mark pleadingly stares up at him. "You can watch and make sure I don't hurt myself."

God, there's so many reasons why this isn't a good idea, but most of them aren't medical. On a professional base, it actually isn't a bad idea. Still not advisable, strictly speaking, but there's an obvious solution that would satisfy Chris professionally while also respecting Mark's wishes. It's just pretty unwise personally, considering the huge crush on Mark that Chris harbors.

But, priority-wise, that one's pretty low on the ladder right now, so Chris nods slowly. The obvious relief written on Mark's face reinforces that he made the right decision, but Chris still has one amendment to make. "I'll wash you. You'll just stand there and not move. Clear?"

"Clear," Mark agrees immediately, unusually pliant. He's so eager he's already sitting up, grimacing at the pain in his ribs.

Well, Chris is just going to have to be professional about this. He's a doctor, and Mark won't be the first person he's helped wash, but he will be the first person Chris has showered with and washed in a non-intimate context. But this is about Mark, who wants to feel human, and after everything there's nothing Chris wouldn't want to grant him.

The showers on Hermes aren't exactly generous and for a moment Chris has no idea how to put his promise into practice. But promise he did, so they're just going to have to leave the shower doors open and create a mess. So Chris turns on the water, makes sure it's of a good temperature and pressure – not too hot, not too strong – and then gestures Mark in. "Just stand under the water for a bit, I'll, uh."

The Mark of the past would have smirked at the way Chris trails off, winked and made some sort of comment, but this Mark is too tired, too hurt, too focused on his single goal of getting clean, feeling _human_ again to spare Chris more than a glance. It helps remind him what this is for, and so Chris doesn't wonder if there's anything skeevy about taking his own clothes off as well. It's just practical, and he keeps his boxers on anyway.

What with there not being enough room in the shower, Chris gets a sponge – yes, they have sponges on Hermes, the plastic mesh kind that weight and compress to practically nothing and create foam as soft and fluffy as clouds – and lathers it up. "Come here," he then requests quietly.

Mark's eyes, having fallen shut in bliss, blink open and then Mark steps out of the stream of water towards him. There's already a puddle forming on the floor, but it's made of this anti-slip material so Chris doesn't have to worry about that, at least. "Slow and careful, arms up," Chris directs and watches carefully for any sign of pain as Mark lifts his arms as instructed. When there is none, Chris takes a deep breath and gets to lathering Mark up.

As per Mark's request, Chris ends up lathering him up and then aiming the shower head to wash the soap up three times, and then he gets the shampoo and gently massages it into Mark's choppily cut hair. At this point, Mark's already half-lidded eyes fall shut completely and a small noise escapes him.

He was all alone, Chris thinks. All alone, for such a long time. Nobody to talk to, nobody to touch him, nobody to take care of him.

"I'm here," he whispers, rubbing gentle circles into Mark's scalp, and Mark squeezes his eyes shut even tighter. If he cries he does it silently, tears hidden by the water before Chris can spot them.

Once Mark is as clean as he could possibly get Chris directs him to stand in the middle of the bathroom, arms extended, as he gently dries him off, taking extra care to pat his skin as softly as possible above any bruise or break. Then he can finally wrap Mark's ribs up, and for good measure he dabs some cream on the worst of the bruises as well. By this point Mark's movements are tired and sluggish and Chris, for some inexplicable reason, feels like crying. Mark has never been this quiet and pliant, not even at his most tired and cranky. Not that Mark is loud per se, he's just... lively.

Well, to expect him not to have changed after his ordeal would have been foolish.

Technically, Mark has been given all the medical attention possible right this moment, but Chris doesn't realize that his job is done until he's dug a t-shirt out of a storage container and is about to help Mark into it.

But Mark doesn't say a word, just blinks at him, sleepy and vaguely expectant, so Chris barely falters before helping Mark into the shirt, then into a pair of boxers and then sweatpants and socks.

"Clean socks," Mark sighs and wriggles his toes, and somehow that's the last straw.

"Hey," Mark blinks, alarmed and much more alert of a sudden. "Hey. You alright? Chris?"

"Y-yeah, I- sorry." Chris tries to wipe his eyes quickly but the tears refuse to stop, like a dam has broken. He takes a shuddering breath and covers his face with his hands. "Fuck. I'm sorry."

"No, hey," Mark protests, voice soft and gentle. His fingers wrap around Chris' wrists and his tug on them is weak, but Chris doesn't know if that's because Mark is hesitant or doesn't actually have any more strength right now, so he lets Mark pulls his hands down, bare his emotions to Mark's attentive gaze. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Chris manages to choke out. "I just- I missed you." That barely even touches onto everything, but it's the only thing Chris can put to words. He thought Mark _died_. For _months_ he thought Mark was _dead_ , and then he'd found out that Mark wasn't but that they'd _left him behind on Mars_. Up until the moment he saw Mark's face with his own eyes he'd been fearing for Mark's life, and now Mark is here and he's okay, as okay as can be expected anyway, and it's just overwhelming.

Mark exhales. His hands are still wrapped around Chris' wrists but now his grip shifts, slides down to grab Chris' hands. "Me too," he breathes and squeezes Chris' hands tightly. His eyes fall shut and he's leaning in, leans his forehead against Chris', skin warm from the shower and soft. He smells only of soap now and he's in Chris' space, so close to him, hands cradled between their bodies.

If Mark is crying too Chris can't see; he's too close.


End file.
